Starcrossed
by Alan and Nicole Corran
Summary: Her slim shoulders were tense, her body thin and brittle like metal that’s been bent too many times. She crossed her arms against the galaxy. Sequel to THE LAST PRISONER. Please R
1. Broken Smile

_**Author's Note**: I do not own Star Wars, just my characters. This is the sequel to The Last Prisoner, which you should read first if you haven't already. I hope everyone enjoys this one as much. Please R&R._

"_But I always knew that nothing was worth the investment of my heart, because nothing lasts, and I was right, and so I was always old." King Haggard, The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle _

Broken Smile

The undersized Corellian corvette shuddered and coughed as its landing gear settled on the scrubbed durasteel floors of Hanger 1. Above, the skeletal rafters quivered and the walls trembled ever so slightly, greeting the tired ship with distant thunder. The immaculately maintained orbital base was showing its age. The hangar door hesitated, caught, before sliding open.

Second Lieutenant Rick Cortel stepped into the chill hangar with a group of Sullustans. Officially, he was there to oversee the unloading and cataloging of cargo, but unofficially… He squeezed the bundle of Belkadani lilies he held half-hidden behind his back, bruising their long, elegant stems. The delicate white petals, kissed with red on their curled tips, smelled faintly of lemons and roses; slim yellow stamens rose from their milky centers in gentle arabesques. The blossoms glowed against the hard, gray lines of the hangar like wild stars. Rick adjusted the collar of his uniform, rolling his wide shoulders anxiously beneath the starched fabric.

_Seeker II_ was used primarily to return New Republic soldiers home after their tour of duty on the base orbiting the remote planet Belkadan ended. The average length of deployment was 18 standard months—only a skeleton crew and a few squadrons were permanently stationed there. But today the ship carried barely a handful of passengers besides its crew and payload of supplies. The 2nd lieutenant smiled to himself as he pictured a certain dark-haired young woman waiting inside the small capital ship, twirling her ebony curls between elegantly tattooed fingers.

A hiss—the landing ramp descended, but before it could touch the floor, a figure leapt lightly to the ground and dashed across the hangar at him. Rick got the brief impression of ivory skin beneath scrolls of cerulean tattoos and masses of thick black hair before the woman threw her arms around him in a fierce hug. With one arm, he pressed her long, slender body to him, shyly revealing the lilies in his other hand. Her indigo eyes sparkled with mirth.

"Were you so certain I would join you on this backwater swamp?" she asked, leaning back but keeping her arms around his neck.

He shook his head. "Not at all." And he wrapped both arms around her. The lilies trembled against her shoulder. "Thank you, Syri," he whispered against her neck. Syri laughed.

"Thank me later—if you don't get reprimanded for neglecting your duties. I believe your crew has started unloading without you."

The girl stood for an uncertain moment on the edge of the landing ramp, watching them—arms wrapped around each other, the secret smiles, laughter, the way their lips lingered, unwilling to part, and all the while the strange, luminous flowers swayed to some internal melody. The girl's hands clenched; she drew in a shaky breath, but her face remained impassive. There was no one in the hanger for her.

No, she wasn't a girl anymore, Vice Admiral Harris observed from where he stood partially hidden in the doorway, her mouth had lost the softness of youth, the easy smile; her gray-green eyes had hardened into cool jade. Her slim shoulders were tense; her body thin and brittle like metal that's been bent too many times. She crossed her arms against the galaxy. _One heartache replaces another…and so she is old._ Harris shook his head, stepping through the door into the enormous space. He waved away the startled salute of Cortel and Syri's sarcastic one. _I'll have to talk to him about this girlfriend of his._ But now…the girl with a broken smile was walking toward him, a strand of long brown hair slicing her cheek.

"Welcome back, Ms. Richards."

* * *

Amara sat stiffly in a black leather chair across from the Vice Admiral. Harris found her gaze unsettling—and very little unsettled him. He got the feeling she was trying to crawl inside his skull. He cleared his throat and gestured to the plate of dainty Mon Cal hors d'oeuvres that Lieutenant Cracknar had deigned to set out (with a look of haughty disdain that no creature without eyebrows or a real nose should have been able to pull off), knowing full well how much Harris hated the "delicate fishy crap" as he put it. The bite size pink squares smelled like low tide. "Hungry?"

She wrinkled her nose. "No."

Harris nodded, picked up the plate, and, holding the Mon Calamarian delicacies at arm's length, walked to the other side of the room, opened the door to Lt. Cracknar's office, and tossed the plate in, slamming the door on the Mon Cal's shriek of surprise. "Well, now that the pleasantries have been dispensed with, we can move on to more serious matters." He was gratified to see Amara trying to hide a grin as he sat back down with a _whump_. In the other room, Cracknar was making it known that he took great offense at the _Vice_ Admiral's immaturity (it sounded like a hundred frogs dying squishy, gurgly deaths).

"I think you hurt his feelings," Amara said.

He rolled his eyes. "He'll get over it."

The frogs weren't dying quietly. She glanced at the door that separated Harris' office from the communication officer's. "Are you sure?"

He snorted, his upturned nose looking more piggish than usual. "Oh, he'll never forgive me. Hell! That overgrown squid hasn't forgiven me for calling him a secretary two years ago." Amara choked on a giggle. "But he'll move on, plot my downfall…same shit, different day as they say." And he twisted his round face into such a look of world-weary resignation that Amara laughed—a true laugh unfettered by bitterness or regret. The laughter transformed her face, easing the lines drawn by eleven months of torture in an Imperial research facility, erasing the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

"Thanks," she said when she could as she looked down at her hands. She remained quiet for a moment. When she looked up, her face was serious, her voice determined. "I need to know where he is."

Harris had expected the question, known she would ask, but now, looking at her, he didn't know what to say. His superiors had seen fit to keep him out of the loop—a fact that rankled him. They were _his_ goddamn soldiers as far as he was concerned. His face grew hot just thinking about the indignity of having his own men ripped out from under him with little more than a 'thank you, ma'am.' The slimy intelligence agents had said it would "compromise the security of the mission" to tell him any specifics. _More like they don't want me to get my fat ass involved. _Peace was bad enough, but not being allowed to fight… Amara was watching him.

He sighed. "Somewhere around the Spar sector."

"Where?"

"It's on the opposite side of the galaxy, practically in the unknown regions."

"Oh…what's there?"

The Vice Admiral hesitated. He had his suspicions about what the Knights were up against. After Bakura, the Ssi-ruuk had slunk back to their star cluster, but perhaps…perhaps the galaxy's planets (and their inhabitants) were just too tempting. Did she need to know how bad it was? Harris gave himself a mental shake. The girl before him was strong despite her frail appearance. She deserved to know.

* * *

The room was Spartan: a bed with crisp, white sheets and thin pillows, a wall of sleek built-ins, a bare glass desk, and a single metal chair were spotted around the room. Everything ordered and sterile—it felt distinctly unlived in. _So this is Jonathan's room_, Amara thought, taking no comfort in the knowledge. She sank onto the edge of the bed—even the mattress was hard—and rested her head in her hands. Her mind was still trying to digest what Harris had told her. _Velociraptors with guns and soul-powered technology—hah!_ Her stomach knotted just thinking about Jonathan fighting those things.

And there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was lean back and stare at the ceiling of a room that held little of the man she loved, trying to find answers in the glaring lights.


	2. Stones and Ripples

_**Author's Note:** Thanks for reviewing! And remember: A crazy person simply sees what no one else has or can. So does a genius, only a genius reaches for what they see._

Stones and Ripples

_"Amara, I've spoken with Vice Admiral Harris, and he's agreed to let you stay in my quarters aboard the Belkadan base. Also, there's a scientist there mapping the Unknown Regions. You should talk to him about Earth. I'll meet you there."_

The miniature Jonathan fizzled and disappeared. Amara pushed the 'play' button again. She let her head slump onto the pillow and placed the disk beside her so that the image's eyes looked straight into her own. Her smile slipped into a grimace, and she closed her eyes against the tears. The sun had crested Belkadan hours ago, staring through the thin window at her where she still lay between the stiff white sheets of Jonathan's bed. _"…I'll meet you there."_ The recording ended.

_This is stupid_, Amara thought for the umpteenth time, but when she moved to shove the small, black disk beneath her pillow, her finger pushed 'play' instead. But this time, when holo-Jonathan once again sprung up beside her, she was able to push him away and sit up. She pressed icy fingers to her burning eyes, wiping away a few lingering tears. _For goodness sake, he isn't dead._ With an irritated shake of her head, she thrust off the bedcovers and got out of bed.

* * *

"Ripples…sometimes the ripples make the stones, yes, yes… What did you say your name was?"

"Amara."

"Steadfast, immortal. Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you your name?"

But thankfully Professor J'jalad Reach didn't wait for an answer. One of the dozen star charts (he insisted upon flimsiplast maps) littering his desk caught his attention. With one long, knobby finger, he drew invisible lines from one system to another, mumbling about stone-making ripples. In his nest of papers, bobbing his head slightly, the doctor brought to mind a bald, half-mad stork. His eyes were dark and glassy like wet black marbles; his nose looked long and sharp enough to slice the star chart he was bent double over, and his jaundice-yellow skin had the thin, stretched appearance of someone who habitually forgets to eat.

Amara considered leaving—she'd already taken a step back—surely this couldn't be the scientist Jonathan had mentioned? This old man dancing on the rim of the loony bin?

"Please, take a seat," Prof. Reach gestured to the spindly chair before his desk without looking up, "Yes, yes—heaven knows I have all I need of seats."

_Well, I guess everyone needs a daily dose of crazy_, Amara thought as she sank into the proffered chair. It wobbled ominously beneath her—its back left leg was a third shorter than the others, so she had to lean forward to keep from toppling over. When she was situated, the mad scientist squinted at her through his right eye.

"And you are…?"

"Amara."

"Yes," he said, "yes." He went back to his charts; his hands scuttled across the sheets like spiders weaving intricate webs. "Pushing, always pushing, until one slides beneath the other. No…no, until one slides _into_ the other. Ripples make stones, not the other way around." Amara watched him as he pressed the sides of his hands together, attempting to illustrate the strange plate tectonics he was describing. His skeletal body shook with the effort. But one hand always slipped below the other instead of fusing. After a few unsuccessful tries, his hands fell to the table and lay still. "Everyone wants something—though few know what they really want, yes, yes. What do you want, Immortal?"

Not quite sure Professor Reach was addressing her, Amara hesitated and, when he said nothing further, she answered. "I…" She swallowed. _I want Jonathan to be safe. _The professor stared at his exhausted hands. "I want to find my home planet."

"Did you lose it?"

"What? No."

"Oh—then it was stolen?"

"No!" Amara said, flustered.

The mad scientist raised his head; his bushy white eyebrows (the only hair on his body) arched. "My dear, you seem a bit confused," he said kindly, "Your planet lost you, not the other way around." Amara wondered if her mouth was hanging open—she clenched her teeth in case it was. Reach continued: "Often, when one is lost, it's best to remain where one is. That way, whoever lost you, can find you, yes, yes?" He was trying to be funny, but she didn't laugh. His watery, vacant eyes once again rested on his spidery hands. "Then again, perhaps you weren't lost. You were released."

Amara's mind was buzzing. She imagined Earth going up to the lost and found at the mall and inquiring whether someone had dropped off a wayward Earthling. ("Pardon me, sir, but has anyone turned in an Amara Marie Richards? I seem to have misplaced her.") She saw Earth releasing her like a bird, hands opening to release her wings. ("If you love something, let it go…") _Or perhaps I'm the dove, searching for an olive branch. _But mostly she was thinking how utterly nuts the man sitting in front of her was. _I've had enough._ But as she moved to stand she leaned backward, and the chair rocked back, dumping her on the floor.

Professor J'jalad Reach stood then and looked down at where she sat rubbing the back of her head. His eyes were sharp and clear. They held her still. "Steadfast… Few people know what they truly want. Fewer are their names. Are you?" He stepped around the desk, never taking his eyes off her. Memories pricked the back of Amara's skull, bad memories. Her right hand curled into a fist; her legs tensed, ready to run. "I've heard about you—I've wondered, like others, where you come from, wondered…." He stopped an arm's length away, and smiled, a warm, grandfatherly smile. He offered her his hand. "What is the name of your planet, Amara Immortal?"

Amara told herself to breath, and took his hand; it was dry and cool, like polished wood. He helped her to her feet. "Earth," she replied, breathless.

Reach's eyes grew glassy again. "Where?" His fingers twitched.

"I think on one of the galaxy's arms."

He stared at her, through her as if the secrets stars whisper only to each other were etched into her bones. Then he whisked back to his desk and rifled through the maps until he found one, mostly blank, depicting the Unknown Regions. Recently drawn concentric circles radiated out from the galaxy's center like ripples and collided with more ripples invading the Unknown Regions from somewhere off the map. He muttered to himself: "Ripples make the stones, yes, yes. And where ripples meet…there are new stones."

Amara figured she'd get used to him, even if she never understood a word he said.

* * *

Walking back to her room, Amara stumbled upon the young second lieutenant and the tattooed woman she'd seen in the hangar. The woman's dark locks were disheveled, and she groaned into the man's mouth as he pressed her against the cool, gray wall. The woman untucked his shirt slid one blue-scrolled hand beneath it, but he pulled back. "I can't…" he began and gasped when the woman's hand roved lower. "I have to…"

"That squid, Cracknar, can wait—come on, Rick. How often do you get to play hooky with a stunning and willing young woman?" she whispered against his neck.

"Syri," Rick pleaded, trying to step back, but he didn't stand a chance. Syri's plum-purple lips crashed onto his.

Amara flushed and turned back the way she had come. _Seems like a good day to take the long route._ She sincerely hoped she wouldn't run into the couple again. Seeing them together—Amara shook her head and willed the blush from her cheeks. _I'm not jealous._

Busy not being seen (and not being jealous) as she snuck away, Amara didn't notice the pair of pupil-less, indigo eyes that followed her around the corner.


	3. Syrianna

_**Author's Note:** The semester is winding down (and essays are looming), so I probably won't update for a while. But the next chapter will be about Jonathan._

"_I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn…"__For Good, from Wicked_

Syrianna

Amara stared at her name, trying to see letters in the scribbles. _Hello, my name is Kcktk Cktivt Tiyektfn. How the hell is that English? _So far, she knew that the "K" looking symbol was "A," and that was about it.

There was a soft chuckle behind her. She half-turned in her chair to find Professor Reach shaking his head over the map of the solar system she'd sketched for him—when it'd become quite apparent that while English may sound like Basic it sure wasn't written the same.

"What?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Amara."

"Right," he said and chuckled again, "I just think it's quaint how you've given all the planets individual names—even the moons! It's adorable…heh, Io."

"Yeah well, we're lonely," Amara said, rolling her eyes as she turned back to her work. She'd managed to transcribe the alphabet into Aurabesh (thankfully the letters were interchangeable). It was like those silly codes kids invent in middle school. As long as she had the code, she could read and write the language albeit slowly. _Now I just have to memorize it._

At his desk, Reach was muttering to himself: "Ripples meet, blend, cast the same light, but in different directions…same stones, different names, yes, yes."

_Why does this language have to look like a crazed mechanical chicken invented it?_ Biting her lower lip, Amara stood and walked over to where Reach was drawing circles on the solar system and muttering. The third little planet from the sun (marked 'Earth' or 'Vk7v' as far as Amara was concerned) had so many rings circling and colliding with it that it looked like it was being sucked into a vortex. She held out the sheet of flimsiplast she'd been practicing on. He ignored it—he was playing with his hands again.

"Professor Reach?"

"Wh—"

"Amara."

His watery black eyes regained some of their lucidity. He blinked up at her. "Oh, yes…"

"Yes, Amara," she finished for him with a smile.

"Your patronizing is not appreciated, Miss Immortal, though I never say no to money. What do you want?"

But Amara wasn't about to fall into that trap. She laid the paper in front of him. He smiled, raising his bushy white eyebrows and read her attempt to translate a Monty Python sketch into maniacal motorized chicken.

"Your writing is good, yes, yes, but the content is…questionable."

"It's supposed to be funny."

"My dear, you come from a strange planet."

"Well, there's a pot calling the kettle black."

"My point exactly," Reach said turning back to his star charts. His spider hands traced the whirlwind around Earth. "Until tomorrow…Amara."

* * *

"If you trespass on these premises again…"

"You'll sniff disapprovingly? I was just…"

"I am well aware of your _activities_, Ms. Macri."

The young woman raised a black eyebrow; a seductive smile slid across her sugarplum lips. "Oh please, Cracknar, call me Syri—everyone else does."

If possible, the Calamarian lieutenant's bulbous eyes bulged even farther out of his head. He made a sound like an asthmatic underwater. "I'm reporting this to the Vice Admiral."

"I'm jealous."

Lt. Cracknar's sickly pink skin purpled. "I'll have Cortel charged with dereliction of duty. He'll be—"

"Do not bring Rick into this." Syri's face was white; her cerulean tattoos paled, but the scrolls across her hands grew dark and glistened as if freshly inked.

Amara cleared her throat. Cracknar jumped, but Syri only lowered her glistening hands. Color once again suffused her tattoos. Her eyes glittered strangely in the hall lights. "Sorry for interrupting," Amara said, "I just thought you'd like to know, lieutenant, that it's raining in your office."

Cracknar stared, very much resembling a fish out of water, and then, with a curse that sounded suspiciously like _Harris_, scurried off down the gray hallway in a most undignified manner.

"Not bad."

Amara glanced at the taller woman who waited until Cracknar turned the corner before meeting the questioning green eyes.

"I wouldn't have picked you for a liar," she said with a smirk.

"Well, I didn't think Vice Admiral Harris would appreciate you murdering his secretary."

Syri laughed. "No—he would prefer to handle that himself."

Amara relaxed slightly. When she'd come upon the Calamarian and the tattooed woman (_They weren't making out, thank God!_), the look in Syri's eyes… Even now, something felt off in the woman. There were drops of blue ink on the floor. Noticing Amara's glance, Syri slid the sole of her shoe over the spots. Amara chewed her lower lip. _There's no need to be rude._

"Amara Richards," she said, tentatively holding out her hand.

The other woman's smile widened, revealing ice-white teeth, but she didn't shake Amara's hand. "Syrianna Macri—I thought you looked familiar." Amara stiffened.

"I…I have to go." _The last thing I need is to make small talk about the trial especially with…with her._ "It was nice meeting you, Syrianna."

"Syri."

"Right," Amara said and turned away. Her footsteps sounded too quick even to her. But before she could turn the corner, Syri's soft voice pulled her back.

"You shouldn't wear black before the funeral."

"What?" she said, turning, her shoulders tense. Syri crossed her arms over her chest—moving without appearing to move, she seemed like a beautiful snake spun from the vacuum of space.

"Is he dead?"

"Who?"

"Inanity doesn't suit you, Amara," Syri said, "I'm referring to a certain dark-haired young man with stunning blue eyes and an exquisite ass."

Amara flushed. "Sgt. Knight is…will be fine." She stared at a seam in the floor. _He has to be. _When she looked up, Syri stood before her, an inscrutable look on her face.

"Lie if you must, but never to yourself."

"What do you know about it?" Amara shot back, bristling. She didn't give the other woman time to answer. _He can take care of himself. _"It's not like I can do anything about it anyway," she said.

Syri's pupiless eyes glinted as if to say: _can't you?_ She opened her mouth, but just then Rick Cortel rounded the corner, and Syri's entire aspect changed. All seriousness melted away, replaced by the flirty lightness she had used on Cracknar, but there was true affection in Syri's eyes when she looked at Rick. "What have I done now?" she said, smiling slyly when she saw his scowl.

"You tell me. What the hell did you do to Cracknar? I haven't felt that much well-mannered hostility since staring down the gun barrels of half the Imperial Navy."

"Oh—I just exposed his sexual repression."

Amara took the opportunity to slip away, but not before catching Syri's eye. And for some reason, she felt a little less alone.

* * *

The aging troop transport shuttered, caught in the Ssi-ruuvi flagship's tractor beam.

"We've got a bite," Marcus said over their helmets' com system.

Sgt. Jonathan Knight surveyed his men, each one relaxed and alert in their black armor. They held their weapons with a familiar grace—ready to fire at the slightest twitch of the large, gray airlock doors, ready to kill—and die. The dark-visored helmets didn't allow him to see their expressions, or they his, but he knew none of them were afraid. This is what they did: infiltrate enemy ships and take them over. This was their life, but was it still his?

The transport groaned and rattled as it docked with the larger ship. The overhead lights flickered and died, and Jonathan's helmet switched to night vision. A momentary silence filled the darkness—there was no need to give orders. They each knew their objectives. Jonathan tightened his grip on his blaster and forced a pair of wide green eyes from his mind.

The door screeched open.


End file.
